Home Sweet Home
by aneeme
Summary: Just some random Faramir musings...


_How can so many people look exactly alike?_ Faramir could hardly see any differences in the contingent of infantry before him, and it was beginning to bother him. People just shouldn't be identical – even in the army. He already missed his Rangers.

Faramir had arrived at Osgiliath two days ago and informed the Captain General on the situation in Ithilien. Haradrim and Orc attacks had been escalating for a while, but if those were the only problems the Rangers had, Faramir wouldn't have come in person to report to the commander of Gondor's armed forces. In addition to the rapidly worsening enemy attacks, the Rangers were once again short on supplies. A full belly, a warm blanket, and dry clothes had become the stuff of wishful dreams, and Faramir had finally decided to take matters into his own hands and use every bit of influence he had over his brother, Captain General Boromir of the House of Hurin, to get the much needed supplies. It hadn't been easy. Supplies were short everywhere, but Faramir had eventually convinced Boromir to send plenty of supplies very soon. Faramir was quite proud of his negotiating abilities.

He was going to wait at Osgiliath another week before joining a supply train and returning to Henneth Annun. In the meantime, he would visit with his brother and see if there were any promising archers that he could recruit to join the Rangers, whose numbers were sadly decreasing. While visiting his brother was wonderful and very uplifting, reminding him why he fought so hard for Gondor, his search for decent archers was not so uplifting. It was actually quite depressing and he couldn't help but wonder if the only reason these people were archers was because their sword skills were even worse – although he couldn't see how that would be possible. Most couldn't even get the arrow to reach the target, and others didn't seem to understand the concept of "aiming." Some of these "archers" (and he used the term loosely) had to be blind…and incredibly stupid.

So, to cheer himself up, he went to watch the arrival of fresh troops from Minas Tirith. He thought watching the new faces in their uniforms that had yet to be covered in the mud and mildew of Osgiliath would bring back wonderful memories of home, of the Military Academy, and of glorious military parades in general. But all he could think was _how do they all look exactly alike?_ He could understand the same uniforms, even the same haircuts, but it seemed like they all walked the same way, had the same body build, and even had the same expressions on their faces. It wasn't natural. Where were the wry looks that said "how did we get ourselves into this mess – this place is a dump!"? or the comments about how sore that trip had made them? But the most important question was _how can you tell them apart?_ Apparently it _was_ possible to do so – Faramir had seen Boromir and other commanders call soldiers by name – but for the life of him Faramir couldn't see how they did it!

The longer he was here, the more he missed Henneth Annun. The Ithilien Rangers, while vicious on the battlefield, were quirky and vastly entertaining in the relative safety and calm of the cave system they called home. Well, maybe Henneth Annun wasn't exactly "calm".

Faramir smiled at that thought. The Rangers were merciless teasers – not even rank could save you. There was a fierce debate over whose feet smelled worst – at one point, they had declared Faramir the winner of that contest and he had blushed furiously, as redheads are wont to do. But after the next patrol had come in, his illustrious position as "The One With the Most Smelly Feet" was given to another Ranger, who blushed furiously and the cycle began again….

Faramir really missed Henneth Annun now and couldn't wait to return. The Rangers weren't nearly so concerned with regimentation as, well, the regular regiment was. They didn't insist on constantly calling him "Captain Faramir Sir!" (which becoming very annoying – and it was really a mouthful), and they weren't constantly straightening their uniforms (well, maybe that was because they were only haphazardly dressed at best – buttoning up collars and making sure all their buttons were done up correctly just wasn't very important when you could barely piece together even a mismatched outfit).

Oh, he really missed his Rangers – their good-natured complaining, their rather odd sense of humor, even the way they teased him.

A few days later he joined the supply train to Henneth Annun and couldn't be happier – no more saluting, no more frantically wondering if he's met this soldier or just one of his countless look-a-likes, no more rules and regulations. He was returning to merciless teasers who couldn't care less about rank or rules or regulations. Wait – merciless teasers…people who laugh at how ridiculous he, their commander, looks when he blushes – what was so great about the Rangers again?

A Ranger on patrol interrupted his thoughts, saying "What took you so long? We've been waiting ages for these supplies." The Ranger sniffed the air before smirking and saying, "And why didn't you at least wash your feet? I can smell 'em from here!"

_Oh, yes, home sweet home…I miss Osgiliath already_.


End file.
